by Joanna Angel
“You’re making me so wet,” I whispered.
“Oh yeah?” she replied.
“Oh . . . yeah,” I said. I took my hand off her neck and put my finger on my own pussy. I swished it around like a cotton swab getting a sample, and I put the finger in her mouth. I just wanted her to taste me. I wanted my juices inside of her mouth, and I wanted her to see how turned on I was.
We locked eyes as she sucked the juices off my index finger. I really couldn’t control myself. Did she have to keep her hands to herself? Did she really need to keep her panties on? I wanted her so badly. Our bodies were basically inside each other. I mean, wasn’t the whole purpose of the VIP room so people could do more than they could do in the less important rooms?
I took her hands off the couch and put them on my breasts.
“Oh my god, what are you doing? You’re gonna get us in trouble, lady,” she said.
“I don’t fucking care,” I moaned.
I felt like a demon. “Can I?” I whispered, and Natasha nodded. I reached my hand down and pulled her girl cock out from underneath her panties. I grabbed the back of her head and kissed her lips, and it was like we were eating each other, we were kissing so hard.
I drew back long enough to ask, “Do you want to be inside me?”
“Yes,” she breathed. I got up on her girl cock and it slid right inside my dripping wet pussy. It felt so right. I grinded back and forth on her, much like I had during the lap dance, but now her beautiful girl cock was actually in me, right where it was supposed to be.
“You dirty fucking girl,” Natasha said. “Come on, dirty girl.” Her girl cock hit my G-spot, and I started to tremble. My pussy quivered, and she shifted her position so she could fuck me harder and put pressure on the inside of my pussy. Then she told me to get on my feet on the couch and squat down on her, which I did. Holy fuck, that went so deep inside me. Everything was tensing up. I was shaking so hard, I wasn’t sure I could take it anymore. But she held me in place and continued to fuck me. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening. And then, a gush of liquid came out of my pussy. I was squirting.
“Yes, yes!” she said, which was good, because I was going to keep squirting whether she liked it or not.
And just then, the door opened. Both me and Natasha froze, but the liquid continued to drip out of me like I was some kind of leaky faucet.
“What the fuck is going on here?!” Tony said. “What the fuck did I say the rules were?” he screamed. I got off her lap, incredibly frustrated that I was interrupted mid-orgasm.
“It was me, Tony, I insisted on it. She didn’t break the rules, I did,” I said.
“Well you’re a fucking liability. No turning tricks at this club. I’ll have the feds all over here in a minute. Get out of here, I don’t want to see you back.”
“No, no, I wasn’t turning tricks—see this is an exgirlfriend of mine, and we were just reconnecting,” I said.
“YOU WERE HAVING SEX WITH A CUSTOMER! BOTH OF YOU, GET THE FUCK OUT!”
I gathered up my things and slid my neon dress back on as quickly as I could. In this instance, its easy-on and easy-off capabilities really came in handy.
Tony escorted us out of the building like we were criminals. I was standing in the middle of Times Square with my neon dress and my clear heels, and it was quite strange in the broad daylight. Ironically, for the first time all day, I felt naked. I looked at Natasha.
“Girl, I’d apologize but this was your idea!” She laughed.
“I know. But it was worth it,” I replied.
“Let’s . . . get back to my store and finish what we started,” she said, pulling me by the hand.
“Yes please,” I said, nearly tripping after her in my heels.
“I’ll have to put a tarp down to keep you from making a mess,” she teased, kissing me on the cheek.
I had probably just set some kind of record, getting fired from two jobs in two days. My phone was still up in the dressing room at Club 42, and truthfully I was kind of relieved about that. I wasn’t quite sure how to recap my first day at work to Rob . . . and I wasn’t quite sure if I even needed to.
As we headed back to Natasha’s shop to fuck each other’s brains out, I saw so many other stripper stores. The chances that I’d stumbled into hers, of all the stores here, was a true sign of fate, and who was I to ignore such a beautiful destiny?
Natasha wasn’t kidding. She had a tarp in the closet behind the register, and she unrolled it onto the floor. She pulled her leopard dress off, and then she pulled me down to the ground and slid into my pussy. She hit the spot right away, and the tarp immediately went to good use. Yes. Fuck. Again. Harder. Come on. Yes.
I had a handful of singles, fives, and twenties rubber-banded around a garter on my thigh, which could tide me over until I found another job. I wasn’t too concerned about it. About five hundred orgasms from now, I’d figure out what to do next, but whatever it was, it definitely wouldn’t be at Club 42, and it definitely would be with Natasha.
THE END
To go back and see Naomi go with Natasha to the shower show room, turn to page 319.
I was fresh and clean, having just showered with warm, hard water and orgasmed and whatnot. I truly felt like I’d come out of a spa. If only all the Brooklyn hipsters knew about the water pressure up here, there would be a pilgrimage for all the baristas and bartenders to the Midtown strip clubs. I was going to keep that water a secret. But, of course, the bigger secret here was Natasha.
I had a few texts from Rob on my phone asking how my day went. I knew we technically weren’t in a relationship, after just a couple of dates, but that was a very relationship-y thing to ask. I couldn’t stop thinking about Natasha, and I also had a strong yearning to report every detail about my day back to Rob. I was in my very own self-inflicted love triangle, without any proof whatsoever that either of the other two participants in the triangle had any love for me at all.
Natasha waited for me outside. I bumped into her as I exited the club with my ever-changing mini-duffel bag. What once held a sad ensemble of mismatched panties and burlesque outfits now held coordinating layers of neon, stiletto heels, and wads of cash. I wasn’t entirely sure how much was in there, but it was certainly more than a week’s salary plus tips at Fix. My hair was still wet, thrown up in a ponytail. It was hot outside, but a humid heat, trapping in the moisture of my hair.
“It was really good running into you today,” Natasha said, with a smirk on her face. “Would you . . . wanna get together later tonight?”
“I’d love to, but I have plans, kind of,” I said. “Kind of” was truly the right way to sum up my plans, which were at best implied.
“Alright.” she said, and she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t an innocent peck, like one you’d give to a family member, it was a heartfelt cheek kiss that said, “to be continued,” and I sincerely believed that it would.
I sat on the subway, in the same rush hour traffic that all the nine-to-fivers sat in. With my wet hair and my duffel bag, I looked like someone who just came from a Crunch gym. Little did everyone know what kind of workout I’d actually had this afternoon.
I did return Rob’s texts a few times and got no answer. I got off the train and decided to stop inside one of the bars around the corner from my apartment. I deserved an actual alcoholic beverage from an actual alcoholic bar. I stepped inside the small establishment and ordered a PBR. The unfriendly bartender chick with light purple dishwasher detergent colored hair put one in front of me and I paid seven dollars for the beer, and gave her a five-dollar tip on top of that. It was a rather generous percentage for putting a can in front of me, but I felt victorious, holding my first wad of stripper money. I sipped on the cold beer and felt sweat drip down my face. I texted Rob one more time, and his texts were green. A green iPhone text twenty-four hours after you sleep with someone for the first time is usually a glaringly obvious sign that whatever relationship you thought you had was over. If he c
ared about me at all, he’d find Wi-Fi.
I heard a loud laugh somewhere behind me at the bar. I was sitting in a dimly lit corner, where I wasn’t really visible to the rest of the place. I turned around, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rob sitting at a table with another girl, who was holding his hand and laughing hysterically at whatever the hell he just said. Great. There was all the clarification I needed on the status of our nonrelationship.
I snuck out of the bar. Rob and Miss Laughs-A-Lot were too engrossed in their own conversation to notice my getaway. In all honesty, I felt a mixture of sadness and relief. Just as I opened my apartment door, I received a text back from Rob stating “Gonna stay in tonight! I’m tired.” with the sleepy face emoji. It was one thing for him to lie, but it was totally unfair to bring the emoji into it. The emoji deserved better than that. They were there for laughs and text flirting, not for lying.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door behind me. I threw my mini-duffel on the ground. I kept deleting the texts to Rob that I never sent, which varied from “oh sure you are” to “delete my number” to “okay talk to you tomorrow!” I swiped his name on my phone and deleted our entire romantic three-week history of text messages, and when my phone asked me if I was sure I wanted to delete this conversation, I clicked yes. That’s my generation’s equivalent of first-degree murder.
I took out the wads of cash in my duffel bag and began to count the singles, putting them in neat little piles of money. I let the last forty hours of my life sink in, from spilled coffee to sexy stripper. I looked at my collection of cash, took a deep breath, and felt . . . at peace.
I took my phone out, and my immediate thought was to text Natasha. And while I truly did want to see her again, my fingers moved away from my contacts, and instead I cued up Spotify and put on Cardi B. I turned the phone volume up as high as it could go, got off my bed, put my arms on my dresser, and did what seemed like the most sensical thing to do right now, and that was . . . to bend my knees, stick my ass out, and twerk. I danced around and did all the stripper moves I’d learned in the eighty square inches of floor that I had. I couldn’t stop smiling, and while I knew I looked absolutely ridiculous, I felt quite beautiful and comfortable in my own skin.
I sang along with Cardi. With a new career ahead of me, I was ready to make some moves.
For now, it was my turn to take the stage, and I wasn’t going to stop twerking until I got to the end of this playlist, which contained all three Cardi B albums AND all their remixes. So it was going to be a while. This city had only begun to see the power of my neon, and whether it was on or off, I was going to keep on dancing.
THE END
To go back and choose another fantasy, turn to page 13.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my incredible husband, Aaron Thompson, aka Small Hands, for supporting me, loving me, and holding me as I completely lost my mind while writing this book. I would like to thank Shawn Alff for being such an amazing best friend muse/writing partner who sat with me drinking seven hundred cups of coffee throughout this process. Thank you Asa Akira–I couldn’t have ever been an author without you. Thank you Cleis for believing in me and giving me a chance to express myself here, and letting me vomit in word form on three hundred plus pages in a row. Thank you to every single one of my fans and followers and supporters, and thank you to everyone who is reading these thank yous . . . because you got this book.
About the Author
JOANNA ANGEL is an award-winning adult film star, director, producer, best selling author, and entrepreneur. She was the owner and founder of the venerated adult studio BurningAngel Entertainment, which she started with just a few hundred dollars in her college dorm room, from 2002 to 2019. Pacific Standard magazine noted her as "one of the most powerful feminist icons in the adult industry." She's stormed mainstream media outlets with a mission to defy all stereotypes of sex workers by being a strong, educated, insightful, and powerful woman in adult film, with well over 100 awards and accolades for her efforts both in front of and behind the camera. She’s been featured in the New York Times, Forbes Magazine, LA Weekly, and on Vice TV and CNBC, to name a few. She was inducted into AVN's Hall of Fame in 2016 and the XRCO Hall of Fame in 2017, and in 2012 was crowned a legendary “triple play” award by NightMoves magazine for her accolades as a director, performer, and exotic dancer.
Her first novel, Night Shift, was featured on Cosmopolitan’s list of “36 Legitimately Good Erotic Novels You Must Read,” and was regarded by book clubs and reviewers across the nation as an honest, insightful, hilarious, and inclusive work of fiction. She was a featured author in Best Women’s Erotica of the Year, Vol. 5, and a guest sex columnist for Men’s Health. Angel broke barriers and paved her own way in the adult industry, and she’s now doing the same in the world of erotic literature.
